A Father's Pride

To break your father's heart, you must come prepared. But if you're anything like me, you're already used to the process.

My decision to study biology, instead of something business or economics-adjacent--or at the least, law--was the first blow. If not for the seventy-five percent scholarship, and my mother's pleading, I might have had to pay my own way through school. Also, I suppose my father thought that, somewhere along the line, I would see reason and come back into the fold, which was why he eventually relented.

To be fair to myself, I've not always been the problem child. Once upon a time, pictures of me holding awards from annual prize-giving ceremonies at school, surrounded by my parents and their proud smiles, hung all over the house, framed in gold filigree, and trophies I won at science competitions sat in their own special cabinet like a shrine to my greatness, secured behind polished wood-and-glass doors.

Once upon a time, my father would often take me to the office during the holidays, boasting about me and my achievements to his employees as they gave us indulgent smiles. Then he would take me to his richly-appointed office on the top floor of the building and we would gaze out at the view of the city, and he would say, "One day Yemisi, this will be your view. Imagine that!" And he would smile that proud smile, a smile that, once prized, was starting to feel like a millstone tied around my neck, dragging me beneath the waves.

Now that it's been so long since I last visited my parents' home, I wonder if the paraphernalia remains, or if they've been pulled down, gathering dust in some forgotten store room and making way for the tributes to my younger siblings' achievements, once it was made clear that I'd officially gone prodigal. I wonder if he still mentions my name in the office.

Anyway, today will likely be the last straw, the final nail in the coffin that is my father's expectations for me. After all, there's a limit to parental patience before it evolves into exasperation.

But first, a party.

When I was younger, my family's Christmas celebration was always an exuberant affair: we would sew coordinated ankara outfits that would first be worn for a three-hour Christmas service, and then for the after-party at home, which would go late into the night, full of neigbours and relatives who travelled long distances just to attend.

Today is the same. I had to ask our youngest, Tayo, for the colors of the day, since I was not present when the "and-co" was being sewn. Now I fidget in my outfit, a turquoise, body-hugging, floor-length gown that flares from the knees down, as I tuck my car into a space at the end of the street leading to the house.

From here I can hear the music, the talking drums weaving a rhythm that sets the pace of my heartbeat. My fingers tremble as I walk to the house, the gravity of what I'm about to do, what I'm about to say, weighing down on me.

Guests stream through the gate, laughing and talking, some holding wrapped gifts, others bearing food. From here I can see the tips of the canopies peeking out from behind the fence. I can smell the food, the blend of spices heavy in the air and getting stronger the closer I get.

Mr. Yusuf, the gateman, recognizes me, even though it's been a while. "Ah, Sister Yemisi, it's been so long!" he exclaims with a wide, gap-toothed grin, inclining his head in greeting.

I smile back, always happy to see him. "Where's Mummy?" It's an unnecessary question; I know my mother will be shuttling between supervising the caterers in the kitchen and mingling among the guests. But anything to delay the inevitable. Eventually, I say goodbye and make my way to the back of the house.

The fragrance of bougainvillea interspersed with roasted meats fills my nostrils, making my stomach churn. The music is loud to the point of being oppressive, a Wizkid tune that gets some of the attendees on the dance floor, gyrating their bodies in time with the beat.

At the back, the kitchen door is wide open, and I move out the way for the caterers moving trays of food to where the buffet has been set up. I see my mother immediately, immaculately dressed as always, gold jewelry glinting at her ears and neck, instructing one of the ladies that works for us in the house.

"Mummy," I call out, but she cannot hear me over the music. I move closer to her and tap her exposed shoulder.

She turns, eyes widening as she takes me in. "Yemisi, oh my God, you came!"

Her smile is so wide that tears prick at my eyes. And then I know, at the end of it all, at least I'll have her on my side still. She pulls me into a tight hug, and I clutch at her waist, the same way I did when I was younger, on nights when I'd wake up screaming from nightmares and hold onto her like a life raft in a raging storm.

As she pulls back, she assesses me with keen eyes and pursed lips. "You've lost weight. Are they overworking you?"

"It's a hospital, Mummy," I reply with a chuckle. "I'm always overworked. Where's everyone?" Where's Daddy, is the unasked question, the words that hang between us unsaid.

"In the parlour," she says, pulling me into the industrial-sized kitchen, my favourite part of the house, if for nothing more than the delights that always come out of it. The cooks are too busy to respond to my greeting, the pots on the stoves boiling away. "We weren't sure if you'd be able to make it." She says this with a knowing smile, and a pang of guilt gnaws at me at how long I've been away.

She leads me into the corridor as though I'm a guest or a stranger, which I suppose is what I've become. The lights in the hallway are bright, and I can hear the sound of the TV and laughter coming from the parlour.

Everyone freezes as I walk in behind Mummy. And then Tayo, who was already aware of my coming, shoots up from her place on the sofa and comes running into my arms. "Yemi!"

I hug her tightly, laughing. She smells like lavender perfume and body wash. I remember when she was small enough to hold in my arms, the baby of the house. Now she practically towers over me.

"You grow every time I see you," I tell her, pinching her side, and she giggles.

The rest of the parlour's occupants wake up from their surprise, because they finally come up to greet me: my uncle and aunt, who are based in Lagos but came in for the holidays, who wink and ask if there's any man on the horizon; my younger brother Fola, who only just managed to attend but will not get nearly the same grief that I will for my absences; our next door neighbours, who we've lived next to for years and are staples at these festivities; a few of my cousins.

Apart from the neighbours, I'm the only one not wearing the floral-patterned ankara, which makes me feel more of a stranger than I already do.

Behind the crowd that has gathered around me, still seated on his favourite chair, the one that resembles a throne, is my father. The silence in the room is tangible, broken only by Becky Anderson's voice from the TV and the music from outside filtering in, as I approach him.

My father is a man who looks like he will never age, at least not in terms of his mental acuity. His eyes are still sharp and assessing, piercing into mine as though he can peer into my soul. The grey at his temple and the new lines in the corners of his eyes and across his forehead are the only signs of the years taking their toll.

He rises, and the tension in the room ratchets up, as palpable as fog. With bated breath, we all wonder what he will do. The prodigal daughter has returned home; will he welcome me with open arms, as in the parable, or reject me for good?

Will it even matter by the time I deliver my final blow?

Before anything else can happen, my mother swoops in. "You people sef," she says loudly. "Oya, the rest of you, go out and join the party."

She ushers the group out of the room, despite Tayo's protests--that busy-body, I think with a small smile--and then shuts the door behind them. Father and I are still measuring each other up like two predators in the wild in a struggle for territory. Then again, it's always been like this. It's only recently that my own will grew big and insistent enough to counter his.

"The two of you, sit down," Mummy says, holding me by the arm and pulling me to the two-seater sofa. The leather groans as we sit. Father settles back on his throne wordlessly. He is a king in his castle, but no longer over me. Mummy turns to him.

"Please, dear. Talk to Yemisi. Let this animosity end, for the sake of the family." Her tone is pleading, and I look away from them, biting my lips, hating to put her in the position of peacemaker once again.

My father grunts. "Did we not raise her properly? Feed her, clothe her, give her the very best?" He hits me with a pointed look. "And then she repays us by never visiting. See how she strolled in gallantly, as though we owe her something."

"Ade!" Shock colors my mother's voice. "Don't say that!"

"It's okay, Mummy," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "He's right. I should have come much earlier." I squeeze her hand before turn back to meet my father's glare. I swallow down the years of resentment, the accusations I could throw his way.

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm sorry if it looks like I don't appreciate what you've done for me."

He grunts and looks away, but not before I see the look in his eyes soften. Mummy squeezes my hand, and it gives me the courage to say what I must say.

"I actually came here to tell you that I'm leaving."

Both their heads swivel to look at me.

"Leaving?" my father barks. "Leaving to where?"

I swallow. Clear my throat. Clasp my trembling hands together and place them on my lap. And soldier on. "I'm going to the UK," I say softly, looking down onto my lap. "I got a grant to do a PhD. I leave in two weeks."

For a moment, no one responds. Outside, Burna Boy croons from the speakers: "Angeli, Angelina, you dey cool my temperature..." Mummy's grip on my hand slackens, but when I sneak a peek, I find her eyes shining with a pride that warms my heart. My mother has always been my number one champion, no matter what.

"And what about your obligations here? To this family?" asks my father, and it's the first time I've ever heard him sound so defeated. But I straighten, and keep my tone as firm as I can manage.

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I can't take over the company. I don't want to. I never have."

Again he looks away, and I wonder if he can no longer stand to look at me.

"I'm sorry," I repeat, but the words feel empty. The truth is, I can't apologize for chasing after my own destiny. I know that the family business is the reason why I had a good education and a privileged upbringing, but the thought of stepping into my father's shoes as its CEO has always felt like drowning. And I know Fola is more than capable of taking over, if Father will recognize his talents.

I don't spend too long at the party after my declaration. My father refuses to say anything more, eventually walking out of the room. I don't chase after him. He is a proud man, and he is hurt.

"He'll get over it," Mummy says with a squeeze to my shoulder as we stand in the corridor on my way out. "He knows that you've been given a wonderful opportunity. And I know he's happy for you." I sigh. I can only hope he really is happy beneath the disappointment, that he can see beyond his desires for me and truly see me.

We stand in front of a framed picture of my parents and I, me holding a trophy I won at the science fair, back in secondary school. It's one of the pictures I thought might have been put away after my initial defection, but here it is, put up high on the wall for everyone to see. Our smiles are wide and proud. Perhaps there is hope for my father and I after all.

My mother cups my cheeks, her expression tender. "A child does not become an adult only by virtue of age, but when they realize their path, their destiny. You've found yours, Yemi. I'm so glad and so proud."

"Thanks, Mummy," I say, my voice thick with emotion. "I'll miss you so much."

She laughs, patting my hand. "The UK is not far. We can always visit."

We head outside into the stifling evening air, the party still in full swing. I say my goodbyes to everyone, telling them the news and receiving the appropriate amount of congratulations; "Ah, big sis won japa!" Fola exclaims, always cheeky but still able to get a laugh from me.

My mother and siblings escort me to the car, helping me carry the servings of jollof rice, roasted chicken, and small chops Mummy insisted I take home with me.

I drive off, smiling at their reflections in the rearview mirror as they wave goodbye. I have only just come out of our street, crossing onto the main road, when I park at the shoulder, deciding to be brave one more time.

I pull out my phone from my bag, open the text messaging app, and begin to type:

I'd like you all to come over for dinner before I leave. Please. Love you always.

I press send before I can second-guess myself and put the phone in my bag, not expecting an immediate reply, or any at all.

But before I can put the car back on drive, my phone beeps to show that I've received a text. Heart racing, I pick it up and view the message.

Ok, my father replies. It's not much, but it's a start. Yes, perhaps there's hope for us.